O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?
by Mister Melancholy
Summary: It's jealousy that would bring them together, but it is that same kind of jealousy that breaks them apart. What would you do if you had to choose between your childhood friend and your closest friend? Spain/Romano/Prussia, Italy/Germany
1. ACT 0

**(Originally, there was to be no prologue, but I decided to type a quick one anyway, just to get the entire plot going and all.)**

**An idea that struck me last night. Though, this is my first official Hetalia fic. *takes in deep breath* The main pairing here is SpaRomPru, with a side dish of GerIta. There is also some implied PruHun, PruCan, PruFran, and PruAus in the next chapter, mostly because of my lengthy Prussia relationship characterization.**

**Admittedly, Spamano is my second favorite Hetalia pairing (with PruCan being my third, ohmehgawsh, why so many conflicting pairings), so it will probably get some bias from me in this fic. However, I'll try to restrain myself from making it Spamano-centric. I do have a strong love for Prumano, too. Not as strong as my Spamano-love, but it's still somewhere on my top twenty-something favorite Hetalia pairings. Probably like… my sixteenth or something. :P**

**Not sure when I'll be updating again because of my tight schedule (**_**band camp this week from seven in the morning to eight at night every day, save for Wednesday and Friday, where we get let out five hours earlier**_**) and other projects, but hopefully the updates won't take too long. I'll make this my first priority as of now in terms of writing. Plus, I've already written up half of the first chapter, so it should be all good. :P**

**Anyway, this is going to be in flowery prose, meaning it'll be very, very descriptive. It's also a different style from what I'm used to, so forgive me if it's all weird and ugly-sounding and tedious to read.**

**Oh, and just out of curiosity, who do you want Romano to end up with?**

**Well, anyway, without further ado, I present to you "O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?"—a tale of a young love triangle between Antonio, Romano, and Gilbert. **_**Oh dear.**_** This definitely can't end well...**

* * *

❝**O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?**❞

**「 ****ACT 0 ****」**

**Human Tug o' War**

"A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,  
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;  
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,  
As much or more we should ourselves complain."  
—William Shakespeare, _The Comedy of Errors_

* * *

Romano Lovino Vargas was known infamously for his steely heart, with its lack of reciprocating sentiments from others and its strong loathe for abhorrently sugary romance. He was also known for his crude and uncouth personality, as vulgar expletives managed to echo out of his mouth in a thousand words per second, and he was found rashly pointing his middle finger towards everyone and anyone on more occasions that naught.

Naturally, someone of his nature would indefinitely repel the entirety of the people he's met. In all his twenty-three years of living, that statement indeed held genuine truth. No one dared approach the petulant Italian in fear of being flogged with incessant curses, even despite the Italian's rather handsome and attractive looks (which was more or less second best to his younger brother's adorableness).

Unfortunately, that statement no longer held anymore sincerity in his current situation. This was all thanks to two very different and very aggravating men. On his right was Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, an affable and flamboyant Spaniard with a big heart. On his left was Gilbert Beilschmidt, a self-proclaimed descendent of rare Prussian blood with a big ego.

Antonio, who on occasion was simply referred to as "Toni," was short for his age, but still a few inches above Romano's head. With even sun-kissed skin that glowed with exuberant translucency, forest green eyes constantly exhibiting jubilee, a tousled mess of tawny locks, a perfect build consisting of an impeccable balance between muscle and nothing, and a bright and irresistibly charming grin, the Spaniard was the very epitome of the sweet and oh-so flawless man living in every girl's dreams. His voluptuous Spanish accent also added to the effect of his pull on people's hearts, bringing them deeper down in the abysmal ocean of attraction and captivation. His personality was even absolutely _perfect_, for the man was insanely optimistic and warmhearted and passionate even at the gravest of hours. Some people have claimed that he was a bit on the oblivious side at times, but that just further increased his alluring charm.

Romano wanted to puke at the sole sight of him.

Gilbert—though, he preferred being called "Gilbo" for reasons unbeknownst to anyone—was a rather tall person at an astonishing height of 5'9" (hey, it was tall in Romano's standards!). His looks could also be described as astonishing. The self-proclaimed Prussian had albino-like qualities to him, with blood red eyes full of malicious intentions contrasting nicely against eerily pallid skin. His hair was a weird shade of very light silver, and his build was similar to the Spaniard's—perfectly toned, perfectly delectable, perfect eye candy. His personality was the exact opposite of the loveable oaf Antonio, as Gilbert was constantly referred to as a "bad boy" for his notorious schemes. Very much on the egotistical side, he has the strange ability to somehow link any kind of conversation back to himself. Nonetheless, despite his rather obsessive amour-propre and his being dubbed as a "bad boy," he still had a big heart when it came to the things he enjoyed. Like his adorable yellow chick, or his nerdy Internet addiction, or (apparently) _him_, Romano Lovino Vargas.

Romano usually found him bearable (at least, he was a better substitute to the cheery Spaniard, but that might have just been him and his irrational hatred towards Antonio). But the self-proclaimed Prussian was still annoying, and so the Italian attempted to avoid him at all costs. That was practically impossible at the moment, though, because the poor Italian was caught in-between both Antonio and Gilbert, who were pulling Romano's arms in the opposite direction.

_As if Romano was a fucking human tug o' war._

"He's _mine_!" yelled Gilbert in such a harshly possessive tone, it almost scared the living daylight's out of Romano.

"No, no, _mi amigo_," Antonio deadpanned frighteningly (again, it almost caused Romano to faint due to its horrific content) despite the sanguinary and bloodthirsty smile etched on his face. "My precious Lovi belongs to _me_."

Romano proceeded to scream out from the strain of his arms being stretched out, his musings fogging with hatred and frustration. But, his stentorian yells proved useless, for both men were oblivious and only directed their attention towards each other in a rivalry fashion.

"Let go of _my_ Romano, you fucking bastard!"

"I'd rather you let go of _my_ Lovi first, bastardo!"

_Fuck fuck fuck!_ The Italian felt as if he would explode from the pain any minute now. However, the two (annoying) men kept on with their little and unprogressive argument, and Romano was left to suffering being forcefully pulled into a totally unasked for love triangle. Something he downright opposed, since he absolutely _did not_ even reciprocate either of their feelings for him! At least, that's what his too-in-denial mind says.

But what of his supposedly steely heart…?

* * *

**Thoughts, comments, criticism, questions? Should there also be a few minor side pairings, or is the Antonio/Romano/Gilbert love triangle and GerIta enough? I'm open to suggestions.**


	2. ACT 1, SCENE 1

❝**O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?**❞

**「**** ACT 1, SCENE 1 ****」**

**Verde Subalterns**

"But O, how a bitter thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes."  
—William Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

* * *

_Teehee…_

Childish giggles, innocent and hasty caresses, a soft peck here and there—Romano could've sworn he vomited inside his mouth thrice and unwillingly swallowed his regurgitation from watching the disturbing public displays of affection shared between his idiotic twin brother and… _that man_. The burly German. The one Romano loathed with a burning passion that exceeds the intensity of a thousand suns.

_Ah… Feliciano…_

The two idiots had only been in a relationship for a mere two weeks, and it seemed like they were well beyond the phase of lovesick puppies and into the more "intimate" and "mature" phases. Romano had been practically forced to sit through supposed alone time between the romantic couple and watch them perform brain-scarring acts among each other. Like whispers of sweet nothings (which were always filled with disgusting innuendo, such as, "Would you like to try my wurst again during dinner?" and "Let's sleep together again tonight! It'll be fun, teehee;" though sometimes, Romano wondered if the latter wasn't innuendo but… the dreaded "s" word that the Italian wasn't going to think of right now else he engrave images he can never be unseen in his head). Or quick yet salacious touches around the entirety of their bodies (yes, yes, sometimes even in the forbidden area, much to Romano's dismay and, unfortunately, lunch). Or the occasional heated make out session, which usually lasted for about a good ten minutes with proper oxygen-reprieve breaks in-between. (Maybe even half an hour during those special, excessively hormonal times. Not that Romano kept track of time or anything.)

_Ti amo, Luddy…!_

_Same, sa—mhmm… Hn…_

Disgusting—another kiss with _obvious_ and sloppy tongue action! Had they no shame? Though they were in the privacy of the Vargas household, they should be aware that another human being was existent alongside them, too! And unfortunate for them, that certain human being apparently despised public displays of lovey-dovey affection.

_A-ah… Mhmm…_

Romano wrinkled his nose in disgust as he saw the couple break away from their passionate kissing, their faces flushed with bright pink and their gazes filled with want and need and everything in-between. His lips flapping quietly with inaudible whispers splaying out, the German's huge hand wavered towards Romano's idiotic brother's luminous cheeks, brushing his rough fingers against the rosy skin in such a delicate manner, as if the blonde was afraid to break the cheery little Italian. As if the blonde thought Feliciano was a fragile porcelain doll—beautiful, dainty, lily-white…

This action only proved to heighten Romano's rising enmity towards the macho blonde German, his clenched teeth seething with rancor and loathe. With a baleful glare towards the direction of said German, Romano crossed his arms over his chest haughtily and stomped in front of the couple, who didn't even so much as to acknowledge his existence. "You've overstayed your welcome here, fucking bastard," the petulant Italian barked angrily, breaking the couple out of their amorous reverie.

"S-sorry," Ludwig mumbled tentatively, getting up in the immediate he realized Romano was glaring at him. The blonde smoothed his clothing from any visible wrinkles and nodded to his boyfriend's intimidating brother, receiving only a short, acidic grunt a la Romano in response.

The blonde shot Feliciano a small smile, watching as the Italian's seemingly permanent smile grew ten times bigger. "Ah, well, I will be seeing you, Feliciano…" (Romano growled, mumbling something along the lines of "Don't you dare come back here".)

"Ciao, Luddy!" Feliciano beamed with his signature ebullience intact, completely oblivious to whatever his older brother was grumbling about. "See you again tomorrow?" Anticipatory optimism was evident in his words, and the fact that the German nodded in agreement made the cheery Italian fumble towards the German, clumsily wrapping his arms around the blonde's waist. The German's blush returned as he wrapped his own arms around the Italian's small waist, basking in the all-too-familiar scent of pasta, tomato sauce, and lilies.

And with that, the German left—or rather, was forcefully kicked out by one impatient and angry Italian—leaving the Italian brothers with lingering and various emotions, contrasting as much as the brothers were opposites of each other.

Feliciano turned back around and faced his mirror image, whose expression was very well contradictory to Feliciano's zestfully enthusiastic face. "Mio fratello," he gushed out, smiling, "what do you want for dinner tonight?"

Romano pursed his lips. Silence formed between them—a tense, somber quietness that haunted and confused and insinuated. For once, Feliciano's perpetual smile dissipated into a fine line of uncharacteristic seriousness, his amber orbs shining with worry for his older brother. Romano remained indifferent, his posture and the expression frozen in everlasting time. Despite that, his thoughts were surging with an amalgam of foreign emotions he couldn't even name. Well, except for one certain sentiment he felt on a daily basis: _anger_.

It wasn't as if his anger was irrational. The basis, he had noticed for quite some time, for this ever-growing ire was none other than his very own reflection—the handsome man in front of him who was arguably the yang to his yin. Not the macho German who annoyed the hell out of him, or the perverted Frenchman who couldn't keep his hands away from Romano, or even that irrefutably oblivious Spaniard—it was his very own blood, stuck in another body, with characteristics that mirrored his own.

When one thought of Feliciano, the words adorable, ebullient, loyal… Every single positive aspect about that bubbly Italian would be the first few things that came to mind. Clumsy, even, shone with a positive light in the eyes of everyone and anyone. Everyone thought the younger Vargas brother was adorable. He was popular, loved—everything Romano wasn't.

Of course, when one thought of Romano, the image of a wanton man with a sharp tongue full of expletives and a petulant behavior to coincide with such would appear in everyone's mind. That was what Romano was to everyone, and that was what everyone would think of Romano. Ugly personality. Inferior to Feliciano. _Unloved._

But, how was someone like Romano to exceed the expectations of everyone when the goal was impossible to reach? Feliciano was the epitome of perfection, and to even dare reach beyond the very depths of flawlessness was completely unthinkable. How would Romano even prove to become "better" than his younger brother? How would he prove to grasp the concept of a carefree, adorable, happy-go-lucky personality such as his younger brother's? How was Romano to possibly become involved in a love li—

He paused and mentally laughed at himself for his stupidity. Being in a relationship was definitely a negative aspect of Feliciano more than anything. To be together with someone, one must give up their time, patience, and thoughts to each other. One must become unselfish and dedicated, or else the entire relationship is for naught. But, honestly, who would want to give up so much just for some insignificant little "soul mate" who would inevitably leave you anyway? Romano had seen the pain and depression of someone suffering from a broken heart before, and he was determined never to become as pathetic as someone like that, writhing for the fulfillment of the nagging needs in their heart.

That was part of how he was bestowed with the image of a "steely heart," for despite everything—looks, charms, anything—no one had the ability to romantically woo the iron Italian. Romano wasn't certain whether or not this could be considered a good or bad thing, but whatever the case, he honestly could say he found genuine truth in this (in the case of romantic sentiments, anyway).

"Mio fratello," Feliciano reiterated, ruining that dreary silence with his signature high-pitched voice as well as snapping his older brother from his muses. The younger's frown reverted back to a small smile, the corners curved outwardly in a gentle fashion. "I'll make il vostro favorito_, _bene?"

"Don't treat me like a child, damn it," Romano scoffed, though his face proved to soften substantially. "Capelli d'angelo, got it?"

"Sì, fratello," Feliciano gushed happily, smiling brightly. Romano raised an eyebrow at the robotic movements of his younger brother's lips, but shrugged it off and playfully tousled his brother's light brown locks. Then, with his infamous two left feet, he stumbled off into whatever direction (he hadn't decided on a destination; he just felt like going somewhere).

Meanwhile, Feliciano stared with ardent concentration at the dispersing figure that was his older brother, a smallish, saddened smile etched onto his usually-ebullient face.

• ❈ •

"_Vediamo_… One medium red pepper—chopped. Two cups of fresh, sliced mushrooms… Fourth of a cup of flour… Ah, I need to preheat the oven!" The fretful Italian rushed towards the oven and preheated it to exactly three hundred and fifty degrees, smiling satisfactorily at the fact he remembered such an important fact. He then stared around the warm kitchen, hunting down every needed ingredient on the list ("Aww, we don't have that many mushrooms anymore!") and placed them all hastily on the counter.

"_Ve_, what next…?" Stealing a short glimpse at the cookbook, the Italian clumsily grabbed a black frying pan from one of the bottom kitchen drawers and placed it adjacent to the ingredients. He stared onto the top of the skillet, flinching backwards at his reflection. Though, instead of the usual image he saw of himself, he found that he could only see the daunting face of his older brother—_Romano_.

Romano, Romano, Romano! Despite whatever anyone thought, Feliciano looked up to his inspiring older brother with such awestruck animation. Even when that petulant little Italian man was known to have a huge potty-mouth and violent tendencies and, on more occasions than one, a stupidity streak that ceased to amaze anyone, Feliciano was amazed at how amazingly valiant his older brother was. How Romano wasn't afraid of cursing anyone out despite possible consequences. How rebellious and powerful Romano was towards a vast majority of the population of earth. How unnerved Romano was, never submitting to anyone despite their promises of an "everlasting love" and their incessant presents filled with chocolates and roses and sentiments.

What stupefied the naïve little Italian about his older brother the most was the fact he was so and undeniably _loved_ despite the cruelly surly personality that was critical to Romano's infamous image. Maybe he wasn't absolutely loved by the entire world, but Romano at least had someone who loved him and actually showed it both verbally and physically. At least Romano had someone like Antonio, who constantly displayed his genuine love towards Feliciano's older brother through every possible method imaginable from hugs, little pecks on the cheeks, a teasing comment every now and again…. And, though Romano reciprocates with violent punches in the face and choleric ejaculations of "Damn it, you bastard!" the Spaniard is bent on showing Romano his sentiments, returned or not. No matter what; and, Romano had the ignorance to take the Spaniard's feelings for granted.

_That_ made Feliciano internally burn in a green flame of envy. Partly because his older brother refused to their best friend Antonio's feelings (though, Feliciano let this one go as it kept his older brother's iron image consistent), but mostly because Romano didn't even have to _try_. Feliciano's older brother didn't have to do anything; he just had to be there, flaunting off every adorable aspect in his arsenal, and Antonio craves the petulant Italian like a dehydrated man craves for a nice oasis in the middle of the desert. Romano… the older Italian brother just didn't even have to do _anything_, whereas _Feliciano_ struggled for a mere embrace from _his_ boyfriend!

Feliciano sighed halfheartedly. His boyfriend—Ludwig Beilschmidt, a blonde, brawny German man—was absolutely pragmatic. The unfortunate Italian had tried every single kind of maudlin action ever thought of, yet Ludwig remained indifferent. Well, the blonde would go beet red, yes, but Ludwig never had tried initiating a hug, or a cuddle, or a kiss. Feliciano had been the one who had to start everything, and because of that, the Italian was constantly panicking on whether or not the brawny German even reciprocated Feliciano's feelings.

Just a few minutes ago, when he and Ludwig were canoodling on the couch, Feliciano almost thought his boyfriend was going to finally do something romantic when he saw Ludwig's giant hand waver towards his rosy cheeks. But, when the Italian heard the hushed whispers of, "You have an eyelash on your cheek, Feliciano," said Italian felt as if he would explode from complete and utter frustration and irritancies and depression.

Sometimes he would he he's overreacting—being too melodramatic for his own good—too _selfish_, but Feliciano yearned for some kind of sign that Ludwig wanted him, be it with a good old-fashioned confession of "I love you" or a simple hug…

It wasn't fair that _Romano_ was able to get all of that without so much as batting an eyelash!

But, Feliciano wasn't spiteful. No, no, he would never be—not for his precious older brother. Even though Feliciano was on the brink of raging jealousy, he wanted so much as to assist Romano and Antonio's relationship. Though people have naturally dubbed him as a "stupid, incapable man," Feliciano was well aware that, somewhere, deep inside of him, Romano wanted the Spaniard as much as the Spaniard wanted Romano. And that alone made Feliciano promise himself to help his older brother as much as he possibly could.

Because, if Feliciano couldn't be filled with the exuberant euphoria and mirth he feigned every single moment of his life, his older brother at least deserved to be able to be positively and genuinely happy.

* * *

**Well, I have after-school band rehearsals for two hours every day after school. There's also football games that last 'til one in the morning (for pit, anyway). And being a freshman is pretty stressful, but that's my fault for taking every possible AP class available. So yeah, I'm pretty busy. XD**

**Anyway, honestly, I kinda re-wrote the original plot I had in mind. I still haven't diagramed it yet, but _I do_ have a direction with this now and _I do_ know what the ending Romano-pairing will be. It's a secret for now, though. :)**

**Oh, and to make this educational for me, I'll be using my SAT words from PAP English every now and again. It'll help me learn the words _and_ it'll make this easier for me to write, as my vocabulary is limited right now. OH AND MY SAT FLASHCARDS HAVE HETALIA DRAWINGS ON THEM. Most are Romano/Lovina-centric. For the word "wanton," I have Lovina cursing like crazy (though, it's censored) and Feliciana is all, "Bad sorella, bad!" XD**

**(Oh, and I'll be experimenting with different writing styles every once in a while, so just a head's up. The prose and POV will stay the same, though whether it's third person omniscient or third person limited is dependent on the chapter and/or current scene.)**


	3. ACT 1, SCENE 2

❝**O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?**❞

**「**** ACT 1, SCENE 2 ****」**

**Vargas and the Art of Faking It**

"False face must hide what the false heart doth know."  
—William Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

* * *

"Ciao? Vargas residence. Feliciano speaking."

"Feliciano… It's Ludwig."

"Luddy? F-Fratello, it's Luddy!"

_("Dammit, Feli, if I choke on pasta one more time because of you…!")_

"Ve, scusi, fratello! Scusi, Luddy! Mio fratello is in a bad mood!"

"It is alright…"

"Anyway, why are you calling at such a time?"

"Ah, verzeihung. Are you busy right now? If you are, I will call ba—"

"Oh, no, no! Please don't! I was just curious as all!"

"Ah, of course. Anyway, I… must ask you something of significant importance, Feliciano…"

"What is it, Luddy?"

"Well… I…"

"Sì? Go on?"

"What are you doing right now?"

"Just eating dinner with mio fratello!"

"What are you eating?"

"Oh, just some chicken mar—ehi, ehi, Luddy! That wasn't the question you wanted to ask me, huh?"

"Verzeihung, Feliciano…"

"It's alright! Don't worry about it!"

"R-right…."

"Well, anyway, what were you gonna say earlier?"

"Err, well…"

"Sì?"

"Uhh…"

"Go on, Luddy!"

"F-Feliciano! Stop interrupting me!"

"Ve, scusi, Luddy! I'll keep my mouth shut!"

"Nicht, that is alright. I… was wondering if you would be busy on Thursday?"

"Ve, why? Teehee, and I'm not! I'm free the entire day!"

"Gut, gut… Would you like to come over to my house—"

"Sì sì sì!"

"—with Romano that day, around noon…?"

"Oh, uhh… W-well, sì, if mio fratello will be okay with it… W-why with him…?"

"Mein bruder is coming to visit, and I think it would be less awkward with more people around."

"You… have a fratello?"

"Ja. I have not seen him since I was a child, though."

"O… Oh, vediamo! I see… I see! Me and mio fratello will be there, even if j have to drag him there! Is tuo fratello nice?"

"Tu… o?"

"Your. Your fratello!"

"Err, well, more or less…"

"Teehee! You're funny, Luddy! I can't wait to meet tuo fratello!"

"Ja… Uhh… Err… I have to leave now. Tschüss, Feliciano…"

"Arrivederci, Luddy!"

"Umm… I-i-iche… lie… Iche lie—"

"It's fine, Luddy! I know you're not ready to say that yet! I'm patient, teehee!"

"Ah, danke, Feliciano…"

"Like I said, don't worry about it, Luddy!"

"Ja. Right, Feliciano. I will see you later…"

"Definitely! Ti am—"

Feliciano heard the all-too-familiar click of the phone, and suddenly an annoying buzz rang through his ears, taunting him with stabbing emotional pain. His lips curved upwards in a forbidding smile, an innocent facade for the dreary melancholy hanging underneath his half-lidded eyelids. His fingers were shaking in agonizing anxiety and anger as they were wrapped tightly around the phone, choking the technological device with uncharacteristically violent strength.

He wasn't mad. He wasn't mad. Oh hell no, he most definitely was not the least bit mad; why in the world would someone like Feliciano Vargas—the happiest, clumsiest, most innocent man in the face of the earth-be mad? And at his older brother nonetheless?—absolutely preposterous! Totally unheard of!

Yet, the usually-ebullient Italian man found himself feeling the slightest tinge of anger towards both his precious older brother and his beloved significant other, even. But, it wasn't their fault, Feliciano had decided flaccidly. In all honesty, he found that the fault in such ardent emotions was his very own, for he was the one who expected too much. Feliciano was the one who constantly expected a flawless relationship, and it would be with his own pessimistic and negative attitude that brought about the vigorous ire bubbling in the pit of his stomach. And it was also Feliciano who wasn't able to control his baleful jealous, which was practically a settling volcano wanting to erupt inside of him.

Yes, it was Feliciano that should be blamed for his own fiery contempt and rancor. He was ultimately stressed for some reason; he was trite, with no sense or grasp of the real world, as if everything was a surreal painting dancing around him in perpetual circles. Or rather, he was just being a bit too melodramatic today (this, he thought, could easily be linked to that certain salacious Frenchman). All the Italian needed to ease his troubles would be some good old fashioned rest. And quite possibly a much-needed casual conversation with one particular friend-someone who, frankly, he had no communication nor interaction with for years now. He would change that very statement today, the bubbly Italian promised himself.

Loosening his exceptionally strained grip on the telephone, Feliciano redialed a new number in an awkwardly foreign pattern, almost as if he had not used that certain number for a prolonged period of time. Then, after a few staccato beeping noises, he heard a stentorian shuffle on the other line, his faux-smile curling inwardly in a maddening Cheshire cat-inspired grin.

"Ve, ciao! It's me—Feliciano! How have things been?"

• ❈ •

Dinner was unusually and eerily quieter than usual. More often than naught, a Vargas family dinner between Feliciano and Romano usually consisted of complete and utter chaos, sporadic food fights after some one-sided argument a la Romano, or his younger brother's incessant and prolonged chattering of "Ludwig this" and "Ludwig that" (Romano always droned himself out when that happened). But… as aforementioned, it was different tonight.

Feliciano's head was buried into his food in guillotine fashion, his fork swirling around his plate as an indication of scarily deep thought. Romano quirked a lone eyebrow curiously at that realization; something was definitely wrong with Feliciano, but the older Italian brother hadn't the mood to be asking away. Secretly, Romano was somewhat happy that for once their household could be quiet and peaceful. And, though he felt guilty thinking of such things, Romano admittedly was anticipating his younger brother to break down and complain how that macho man broke up with him. Somewhere in the cynical depths of his musings, Romano was convinced that, in-between the time period of the German having left and Feliciano successfully having dinner ready, the two broke up somehow.

It did seem a little farfetched, but still, that was what Romano craved—for the two to break their meaningless relationship. That meant goodbye and good riddance to Ludwig, and hello to a fresh new acquaintance with perpetual tranquility. Just thinking of the favorable consequences hyped him up substantially, his mouth spooning down a plethora of angel hair spaghetti per spoonful.

But, as if destiny went out of its way to ruin Romano's hopes and dreams and whatever else he had left, that preserved silence was broken by a shrill ring of the phone. His younger brother shot up in the immediate of the cacophonous sound and sprinted towards the living room to retrieve the phone as if it was a sacred heavenly message. Romano remained seated, calmly chewing the reminiscing pieces of stray spaghetti left on his plate, his abnormal placidity in such a situation perplexing even himself.

_"F-Fratello! It's Luddy!"_ Feliciano ejaculated enthusiastically, causing the older to choke on a random string of spaghetti.

"Dammit, Feli!" Romano deadpanned angrily, a sharp growl escaping his lips, "if I choke on pasta one more time because of you…!" The abrupt interruption of his brotherly threat was the result of a sporadic memory that lodged itself back into the significant part of Romano's brain. It was from a time not too long ago, when youth was a precious yet overlooked moment of life. Romano, Feliciano, and a certain annoying Spaniard by the name of Antonio were all gathered around a table full of crafts. The reasons for their working on this was unbeknownst to everyone, but what they were working on at that moment was simply noodle art—a simple combination of delicious raw pasta and the flair of imaginative displays of artistic abilities (which Feliciano excelled at, of course).

Poor young Romano had been naive enough to eat a raw farfalle sprinkled with a plethora of glitter and choked like crazy. The strenuous moments of lack of oxygen haunted him till this day. He found it ironic that his savior was indeed that very Spaniard he had and always will hate.

He also found it quite interesting to note that Antonio's noodle craft consisted of a scatter of ditalini and gomito in the shape of a (weirdly-shaped) heart, the letters "R" and "A" portrayed inside using exuberantly flamboyant penne.

Err, it wasn't as if he cared much for such an insignificant fact! Random, unimportant moments of his life always managed to creep itself into his mind every so often, anyway! His thinking of such things meant absolutely nothing.

Absolutely. _Nothing_.

_"Ve, scusi, fratello!"_

Romano stared intensely at his younger brother's abandoned plate, still decorated with untouched angel hair pasta brushed with blood red tomato sauce and a small shower of golden Parmesan cheese. It taunted all five of his senses, and his stomach began to growl angrily at the tempting dish.

_Damn, Feli is taking a long time_, he mused with trace hints of annoyance, having a silly mental argument with himself about whether or not to scarf down his younger brother's dinner as to not waste food. It was his favorite dish, after all, but after a few minutes of contradicting and prolonged musings, he decided against it and proceeded to enter the living room to scold Feliciano for being a spoiled brat and wasting such well-cooked food. But, when he heard his younger brother greet with such enthusiasm ("Ve, ciao! It's me—Feliciano! How have things been?"), the dark-haired Italian stopped abruptly in his tracks and hid behind the walls in such a clandestine manner, he surprised even himself with his slyness.

"That's good," Feliciano said happily. Romano raised an eyebrow at his brother's reply, or rather lack thereof. If Romano's immediate deductions of his younger brother talking with that burly German were right, then it was definitely suspicious Feliciano was being uncharacteristically taciturn. From previous experiences of spying (boredom had a knack of making one succumb to such childish actions) his idiotic younger brother was prone to doing most—if on, _all_—of the talking when it came to that tentative German.

A short giggle a la Feliciano. Romano found himself snorting angrily at such a saccharine-esque and too-adorable laugh. "Scusi! We should hang out soon then, huh?" Romano, quirking a precarious eyebrow, shooting his younger brother a perplexed expression from behind his hiding spot. Hang out _soon_? The disgusting, lovey-dovey couple had already been making out in the middle of the living room just a few hours ago; what made those idiots think that they should be hanging out again—and soon? To perform more abhorrently salacious acts upon each other?

The petulant Italian, his face livid, crinkled his nose from revulsion. Ew, no, ew—he never wanted to relive such a scarring calamity ever again!

Feliciano giggled with jubilee once again. "Oh, teehee… I forgot you were in Spain!"

_Spain_? What in the world was Feliciano talking about? Ludwig was obviously still in their little Italian district along with them. It would've been impossible for the German to leave and go to Spain in the span of just a few hours! Or, maybe it wasn't too out of the question, but there would be no logical justification for the German's going to Spain. And Ludwig was, Romano had to admit, someone who would not do anything arbitrarily (unlike a certain bubbly Italian).

But… _maybe_, just _maybe_… Romano nodded his head in disagreement. No, it couldn't have been _him_; their communication had been gone for many years now, and it would be very illogical for _him_ to even contact the Vargas family again. There would be no rational purpose, no _nothing_. _His_ calling would be all for naught, and Romano definitely did not want to see _him_ again.

But, again, destiny and the stars and life in general seemed to have an odd habit of specially picking at the dark-haired Italian, for Feliciano's enthusiastic words very much confirmed his worst nightmares: "Ve, really, Toni?"

Toni. Toni. _Antonio_. His younger brother was talking to _Antonio_, of all people! But why would the Spaniard have called them after such a long time? What provoked such a perplexing, illogical action from the oblivious Spaniard? Then again, Antonio did seem to be one of the most irrational people Romano had ever met…

"Teehee, I'll tell mio fratello you said hi, okay?" Romano growled, his chest feeling very foreign and uncomfortable. His perpetual rancor for Antonio remained, he convinced himself. He will and always will hate _him_.

But destiny hated Romano just as much, too. "Ve, grazie! Love you too, Toni!"—and, with that, Romano felt a fluctuating pang in his chest, going from pleasantly uncomfortable to stingingly unpalatable. Romano was the one who…

Turning swiftly on his heels, the irritated Italian rushed up towards his room, leaving behind his unrecognizable sentiments, not daring to look back at his younger brother.

No, he hated the Spaniard. No matter what. Romano hated Antonio. Antonio meant nothing to Romano, and Romano would not give a care in the world for that stupid, disgusting, vile, annoying Spaniard.

Romano will and always will hate _him_. _No matter what_.

* * *

**Trust me, the ItaGer will be very important to the plot later on. :P**

**Sorry for the horrible grammar in this, but I typed the vast majority of this all up on my iPhone during the span of the week and only skimmed through this one to check for any errors. This will possibly be one of the most boring chapters in the story as not much is achieved through this chapter and I sense a bit of redundancy from Act 1. I really hate it, too. But hey, at least it confirms that Antonio will be appearing sooner or later as well as Gilbo, right? I'm really wanting to write the fun chapters now, but I'm against jumping into the plot too early on. Gaaaah.**

**Has anyone watched episode 75 yet? I'm so happy that they decided to animate those scenes! Feli hug-glomps Luddy, yay! And more Spamano, yes! Chibi!Romano is so cute! XD I was so hoping they would at least switch the ending to Romano's version, but oh well. I still love Feli's. It's so cute! C:**


	4. ACT 1, SCENE 3

❝**O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?**❞

**「**** ACT 1, SCENE 3 ****」**

**Débil Corazón **

"Affection is not rated from the heart:  
If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so,  
'Redime te captum quam queas minimo.'"  
—William Shakespeare, _The Taming of the Shrew_

* * *

A stream of radiant sunlight snuck in-between the almost-inexistent space of the scarlet curtains, illuminating the entirety of the room in a warm, pleasant glow. Buried under the covers was a peaceful young man with a messy tousle of short brown locks, luscious and evenly-tanned skin, and a perpetual and smallish smile that seethed of eternal jubilee and mirth. His dark lashes began to flutter swiftly upon the immediate he felt a disturbance in the lighting of his room, revealing a pair of groggy emerald orbs, dull with bromidic confusion yet subtly shining with ebullient vigor. His dazed just-got-out-of-bed expression remained intact to his face for a few more confused moments before his face brightened up substantially, his smallish smile turning up into a behemoth of a grin.

He jumped out of bed whilst slipping into his slippers in the process, stretching out his tense muscles and yawning as loudly as the busy streets of Madrid. He then stared at the various bags thrown against a precarious corner of his tawny yellow walls, the bags obviously overflowing with a sporadic myriad of his significant belongings. With a satisfactory nod, he rushed to the bathroom and examined himself with the squeaky clean mirror, laughing wholeheartedly at his rather silly demeanor.

Today is the day, thought he with such enthusiasm, he could have very well exploded from such. His musings were centered around the importance of today, to which he described as "possibly the most important day of his life".

Not so long ago, the Spaniard and his enormous family had moved to a small town in the very middle of Italy. They have lived there for quite a long time, and the cheery Spaniard learned and habitually succumbed to the carefree lifestyle of the Italians, even adapting to their curious ways of speech as well as their taste in fine cuisine. It was in Italy where the Spaniard had also met three of his very best friends, of whom he promised himself he would never forget. And he hadn't, to this day—he could have never forgotten them, especially that one particular person.

He smiled with a slight hint of forlorn. Because of some unexpected circumstances, the Spaniard and his expansive family returned to their homeland: in the heart of Barcelona. They have all abandoned their Italian-inspired habits and returned to their true roots. But the Spaniard never forgot about them; no, not even with their lack of communication would the Spaniard ever forget about his three absolute favorite people in the world. Especially his precious lo—

_Ring!_

Having broken away from his prolonged reverie, the Spaniard frantically searched for the source of the familiarly irritating melody and stared at it stupidly. How could he have forgotten to pack his old telephone, from which he received from his parents as a parting gift, giving it the status of grave importance? Then again, was it not him who forgot even his own phone number and, apparently, his own birthday sometimes?

Nonetheless, he softly chuckled bemusedly to himself and picked up the phone. But the voice that escaped from the other end—the all-too-familiar voice he had loved as a child and would forever endear—almost gave him a spontaneous heart attack, for Antonio would have never expected the optimistic Italian to call him after all these years.

_"Ve, ciao! It's me—Feliciano! How have things been?" _

"F-Feliciano?" the Spaniard asked dubiously, almost cautiously, his mind filled with surprise and deadly curiosity and a bountiful of happiness. "Long time, no talk, mi hijito lindo! Everything is muy bien here. Sunny, family reunions, tending to my tomato crops… It's all rather soothing, mi niño!"

"_That's good"—_ah, just the sound of the adorable little Italian's optimistic voice brought Antonio in a sort of heaven. He smiled happily, clutching the phone with a deathly grip that dripped of anticipation, and began chattering away: "Oh, Feli, mi niño! I'm so glad to be talking to you again! Oh, it's been, what, four or six or ten years already? I forgot already, because it's just been _that _long!"

_"Scusi! We should hang out soon, then?" _The Spaniard chuckled softly; they would definitely hang out soon, he thought with a hint of mischievous intent, looking at the plethora of suitcases stashed away in that one particular corner.

"I'm in Spain _right now_, remember, Feli?" He supposed his slight foreshadowing would be lost in Feliciano's thought process, but it never hurt to try making subtle hints.

_"Oh, teehee… I forgot you were in Spain!"_ Oh, the younger Vargas twin was such an adorable little cutie! If anything, Antonio could have exploded from the overload of cuteness a la Feliciano, but he remained still and attempted to keep his _calm_ composure, if calm could also be referred to as slightly fidgety and excited.

"It's alright," Antonio said hastily, smiling softly. "Say, Feli… I have a surprise for you guys tomorrow."

_"Ve, really, Toni?"_

"Sì, sì, for you _and_ my little Lovi!" Just saying that particular name again made Antonio's smile grow into an ebullient grin, toothy and white and illuminated with jubilee. Romano… no, no, his _Lovi_, had always been such a cranky and annoying and useless and insanely difficult little boy when they were but children. Regardless, if anything, the Spaniard preferred that petulant little Italian over the rather popular Feliciano, for reasons he himself couldn't exactly fathom.

The Spaniard could hear a soft giggle from the other end—all angelic and serene and pretty. He couldn't help but giggle himself; Antonio had always been moved by anything cute, especially—_especially_… _"Teehee, I'll tell mio fratello you said hi, okay?"_

"Alright, Feli. Well, I have to go now. Te quiero, mi niño! Stay sweet!"

_"Ve, grazie! Love you too, Toni!"_

And with that, the Spaniard carefully returned the phone to its case, untangling the cord wrapped tightly around his pointer finger. Laughing sheepishly at his childish habit, he returned his gaze towards those suitcases. What was he talking about before? Something about… moving… Oh, right!

Antonio beamed a smallish smile to no one in particular, but one could assume he was smiling at the image of his _love_, who was currently dominating his thoughts with such flaccid ease. Today, which he constantly referred to as "possibly the most important day of his life," was the day he would be hopping on a plane and return to the lands he originally grew up in. To return to the place he breathed for the majority of his childhood. To return to the place that taught him so many things. To the place where he met those three kids, whom of which he had never forgotten regardless of the circumstance—regardless of the lack of communication, or the lack of notable memories, or anything really. He, again, especially wanted to see… his _love_… a fiery little child whose anger, when provoked, was deadly but whose smile was the prettiest little thing he had ever seen in his entire life.

Nodding to himself satisfactorily, the Spaniard snatched the suitcases out of the corner of his room and rushed out of his now-former house, breathing in the intoxicating scent of an exceptionally sunny Spanish day. He would miss the Spanish sun, and the streets filled with laughter, but what he missed more than anything was his former Italian life…

He gazed back at his house, a prolonged ogle full of whimsical reminiscence. Then, he turned his head back around and gazed at the morning sun, a symbol which he took as moving forward to the path of happiness he so yearned for.

The Spaniard threw his suitcases in the back of his car seats and sat comfortably in the front seat, clutching the steering wheel with all his life. He then stared back, the last time he would ever look back, and stared into the direction of the airport, which was only but a few minutes away. An expectant smile, a few saddened tears, and he was off, leaving behind his old Spanish life. He convinced himself it was worth it, though, for his love.

Anything for his love.

• ❈ •

The sound of crickets chirping under the dreary moonlight reverberated against the vacancies of the Italian air, the Spaniard trudging alongside the empty roads, in search of that one house. The airplane ride had been rather tedious and vexing, as he had nothing to do, really, and also because of the fact the person he sat with was… weird, per se. The person he was sitting with—a blonde and bushy-browed British gentleman—exhibited a peculiar sort of rancor for Antonio, of which the Spaniard was perplexed of. He had never seen the man before in his entire life. Nonetheless, Antonio pushed those thoughts away from his mind and returned to his frantic search to seek the house he would inevitably staying at. With his lover.

He smiled happily at the thought. Just to see that person again made his entire day bright, even when he was dead tired and his bromidic and half-lidded eyes were practically falling into a desperate, much-needed slumber. It fired him up with so much excitement, he could barely contain it. Especially when, after what seemed like a very long time searching, he finally found the place he was looking for: a small and shabby one-story house, which, from the outside, filled with varying flowers and plants, looked very warm and comely.

A placid and dazzling smile etched itself on the Spaniard's flushed face, his emerald orbs examining the small mahogany door with impatient anxiety. Then, as the door opened, revealing a rather petulant-looking and tousled angel who apparently just woken up from a good beauty sleep, Antonio's smile brightened substantially. He dropped his suitcases on the ground and practically skidded towards the smallish figure, wrapping his tanned arms around that petite waist with such fervent happiness, a product of the bottled anticipation he had been feeling since the morning he left Spain. It was so nice being able to be here, caught up in a moment of long and Romeo and Juliet-esque sentiments. Everything felt absolutely perfect, even if he couldn't feel any happy reciprocation from the figure he was hugging.

He looked into those trite yet dazzling orbs of abysmal contempt, and he smiled. "You haven't changed a bit, mi amor…"

* * *

**I don't like this chapter, but the actual plot is really close now, I'm serious. I think it'll be in the next chapter, since (SPOILER) Antonio and the Vargas twins will be interacting in person (END SPOILER). **

**Hmmhh, I wonder who Spain really wants to see so badly that makes him move back to Italy? ;)**


	5. ACT 1, SCENE 4

❝**O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?**❞

**「**** ACT 1, SCENE 4 ****」**

**Calma e Sangue Freddo**

"Give thy thoughts no tongue,  
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.  
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar."  
—William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

* * *

"What the fuck? _Bastard_?"

There, right in front of him, clad in the usual tanned work outfit, smiling ebulliently with abused mirth, was someone Romano had not been expecting to see: Antonio, or, otherwise referred to in Romano's colorful vocabulary, "that one bastard who keeps eating all the fucking tomatoes". As aforementioned, said man was smiling, cheerfully, as always, like Romano unwillingly remembered from a few years back. However, unlike those few years ago, it seemed that the Spaniard was slightly taller and his posture was more erect—more confident, more happy. His eyes, even, a deep-set shade of emerald green, held a different demeanor, not exactly arrogant, but quite on the verge, for some reason Romano didn't—and didn't really want to—know, but mildly haughty. (Romano couldn't help but note it seemed forced, though, as if the Spaniard was hiding something.) Otherwise, the Spaniard looked practically unchanged from the last time the Italian had seen the man; tanned, tousled brown hair, lanky. And _smiling_—perpetually, if he could add.

Though, despite the (rather unpleasant) surprise, Romano's reaction couldn't have been even more bored and bromidic even if he tried. Said Italian remained glued to the spot he was standing, his posture slumping from tiredness and laziness, mostly due to the fact that he had just woken up to the sound of a sporadic and annoying ring of the doorbell. Which, of course, inevitably made him cranky, for Romano didn't like waking up all of a sudden. And, well, he _is_ Romano; being cranky was practically second nature to him.

"Lovi," Antonio crooned happily, lugging his heavy suitcases inside without even so much as a warning, much to Romano's dismay. "It's nice to see you too, mi querido."

Romano just stared—no, rather, _glared_—at the suitcases randomly tossed inside his house. _His_ house! And then he redirected his ominous glare towards that happy-go-lucky Spanish freeloader, who was currently beginning to unpack the contents of his plethora of suitcases, the contents inside consisting mainly of day-to-day necessities and a few childish paraphernalia. Romano's expression was absolutely venomous, the poison attempting to kill that Spaniard but to no avail.

He was too oblivious. He was just too fucking oblivious!

"Hey, Lovi, where should I put these?" In one hand, Antonio held a Spanish bull fighter figurine, holding a red flag in the air with seething valiance. Clutched in the other hand was a mini version of the flag of Spain, all regal and flamboyant and smallish.

Romano presumed his prolonged glaring, disbelief evident on his irritated face. "What the fuck? You are _not_ living here."

"Oh, that reminds me!" the Spaniard ejaculated after a sporadic epiphany, earning an annoyed twitch a la Romano, whose face was burning with extreme rancor and enmity. To which, of course, the Spaniard reciprocated with a simple and thoughtful (or rather, thoughtless, considering it's Antonio and all) smile. "Is it okay if I stay for a while, por favor?"

"Why?" enquired Romano exasperatedly, his shoulders hunching upwards in frustration, his thin eyebrows furrowing midpoint to form choleric wrinkles. "_Why_ are you here? Shouldn't you be in Spain, not Italy? Not… here. Anywhere but _here_." His words were stressed—trite. Almost on the verge of potentially grave. Almost on the verge of subtle foreshadowing for the Spaniard's numbered moments of life. "I'm convinced this is all just a convoluted and hellish dream. It better be, or so help me I'll…"

"Can I take that as a yes?" Antonio interrupted hastily, setting his Spanish-inspired figurines back inside his suitcases. "Please, Lovi? I—"

"Stop calling me that. It's _Romano_."

"Lovi's cuter!" A cold glare. A soft chuckle. "…Okay, okay, _Romano, _happy?"—a short nod of agreement, and the Spaniard heaved out an amused chuckle—"Anyway, as I was saying, I need somewhere to stay. My original housing plans failed on me."

"And where was that…?"

"I'd rather not say," Antonio said sheepishly, a deep blush crawling up towards his cheeks, dusting his sun-kissed skin in pretty pink. His adorably flustered expression made Romano blush himself, though he turned his head towards the side as to hide such an embarrassing and demeaning face, attempting to compose himself before showing his face in front of that confounded Spaniard again. "It's… difficult to explain."

"Well, I have all day now since I can't sleep anymore." Romano furrowed his eyebrows, knitting them in a sort of annoyed expression, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. "And guess who's fault _that _is?"

Antonio blinked, expression blank, until he finally realized what Romano had tried to insinuate, thus causing an eruption of bemused laughter to explode hastily from his mouth. "Ah, _me_, of course! Sorry, Lovi!" The Spaniard continued his prolonged laughter, even after the stingingly poisonous death glare Romano was giving him. Though, after a few minutes of his mirth-filled moment, the speak-now-or-die look Romano gave him caused the Spaniard to flinch, taken aback by the seriousness in Romano's amber eyes. He wasn't going to get out of this that easily…

"Go on," the cranky Italian deadpanned exasperatedly, arms akimbo in a fashion that seemed a bit too intimidating. The Spaniard gulped, tentatively smiling. While Romano hadn't exactly changed, per se, there was a different kind of atmosphere around them. It was almost foreign, as if they were strangers. And, the Spaniard supposed they were for they haven't seen each other for a very long time. However, that foreign atmosphere held something more—something that resembled clandestine spite. A horrible grudge that Antonio was certain he would never be able to get rid of… if his plan didn't go accordingly, that was.

Antonio smiled softly, suavely, and looked at Romano straight in the eyes, emerald greens piercing liquid ambers. "Alright, alright!" he said, laughing wholeheartedly whilst doing so. "I was going to stay with mi amor, but—"

"I never agreed to anything like that!" Romano interrupted rashly, blushing like crazy.

The Spaniard just looked at him as if he was crazy, cocking his head to the side in an obvious sign of confusion. "I actually meant my girlfriend, not you…" Antonio took in a sharp breathe of anxiety.

"G-girlfriend?" Romano stuttered in disbelief, his mouth hanging haphazardly agape and his cheeks the darkest shade of cerise ever deemed possible. The Spaniard looked at the hurtful expression Romano gave him, even despite that embarrassing rubicund face of his, and the aforementioned Spaniard immediately felt a short pang of regret. Was he not warned to be careful about playing the omnipotent force in another one's feelings?

Yet, even so, Antonio found himself slightly smiling. The fact that Romano—his precious little Lovi, the one whom he had come to love—carefully, sweetly, clandestinely—since they were but innocent little children, was displaying such fervent feelings upon the Spaniard's statement of having a girlfriend made it so that Antonio knew for certain that Romano cared for him. Even if Romano's foul mouth never proved so. Even if Romano's crude behavior never proved so. Even if Romano's constant denialism of even simple friendship between him and the Italian never proved so.

The fact of the matter was, Romano acknowledged Antonio. The fact of the matter was, Romano was jealous of Antonio's so-called nonexistent "girlfriend," and it was painfully obvious as of now, especially considering the robotic and haggard motions Romano now had, as if he was still in denial of the fact that Antonio had a "girlfriend".

But was this alright? The Spaniard nodded his head; no, when a stubborn person such as Romano was concerned—someone who was known to have a heart made of cold, hard iron—there had to be much more than a simple statement of silly, frivolous relationships. Antonio knew—_realized_—that he had to help burn that jealous fire even more. He had to be a pyromaniac of flamboyant sentiments, causing millions and billions of sparks in Romano's heart, just enough to make that tough steel melt. What better way to fuel that fire even more, thought he with malicious intent, than to mention Romano's perpetual rival… the enigmatic firefighter to the Spaniard's pyromania, dousing away the flames of burning passion with a single stream of icy cold water?

He grinned slightly. "Yes. My girlfriend. Mi amor. My… _Emma_."

• ❈ •

_He looked into those trite yet dazzling orbs of abysmal contempt, and he smiled. "You haven't changed a bit, mi amor…"_

_"You haven't either, bastard," she replied nastily, smiling whilst doing so. With arms haughtily akimbo (after, of course, violently pushing the clingy Spaniard off of her), she raised an eyebrow inquiringly, directed towards both the stuffed suitcases and the presence of the tanned man in front of her. "What are you doing here, Antonio?"_

_"Just wanted to see mi amor," he gushed, a love-struck expression gracing his angelic features. _

_"I'm flattered, really." She scoffed in contempt at the Spaniard's unworthy response, nodding her head in feigned disappointment; rather, one could see a little shine of both pity and malice in her movements and expression. "Just stop it. It'll only hurt him. Go back to Spain or something, stupid. You'll only make his life miserable again…"_

_"I have to try," the Spaniard reasoned pathetically, his smile transforming into an unpleasant, dismal frown. "I have to try… for _him_. You know how much I… I just… _want_ him, Emma. _I want him."

_"I know. Everyone knows. And everyone knows that he is just not that into you. Why can't you get that into your head?" the girl asked, annoyed. "Like I said, just stop it. Nobody wants to see you getting hurt again…"_

_"Lovi was just a kid back then—"_

_"Like _you _weren't?"_

_"I'm older." That would have been the end of the argument if not for the heated and somber expression on the Spaniard's face, __full of fervent and choleric passion. "He wouldn't have known better! Plus, his parents… They're crazy Christians. They wouldn't have allowed for it, even at such a young age, an innocent age. But he's independent now. He can be with me if he wants to."_

_"Emphasis on that _if_." Emma narrowed her green eyes substantially, peering through half-lidded eyes of defensive fury. "I doubt he wants to. Can't you see, Toni? He only wanted to be friends with you. He only wanted to look up to you, respect you—wanted you to care for him. But you changed all that." She took in a breathe, sharp, dismal, frightening. "At such a young change, you corrupted him… He never wanted a romantic relationship. What's a six-year-old to do with such a thing like that? Tell me, Toni… Why would a naïve child want to be in a relationship?"_

_"I only confessed," the Spaniard reasoned, venom seething from his lips. "I don't see what the big deal is exactly. I told him I would wait." Antonio shoved his frigid hands into his pants pockets rashly, staring off into naught all of a sudden, his eyebrows furrowed into an unnaturally choleric expression. "Emma. Pretend to be my girlfriend."_

_"Stop it!" she ejaculated angrily. "You're gonna hurt him, you fucking… Ugh! Just stop it!"_

_"I told you, _I want him_." His dark expression sent shivers to Emma's spine, and all of a sudden, all at once, she lost her tough act and transformed into a shivering coward, knees shaking with fearful anxiety. "Why do you care for him, anyway? You know very well that he loathes you."_

_"I care because even then, he's still my friend. I know he doesn't like me anymore after… that_…" _She squeezed her eyebrows shut upon the remorseful and regrettable reminiscence, shivering slightly. "After that… after hurting Feli… I still care for them. They're my best friends; Romano… he's like the younger brother I've always wanted."_

_"And he's like the significant other I've always _needed_."_

_Emma blinked. "You know your little group? Bad Touch Trio? I think I know why you guys are called that… and it's horrible, how you're willing to risk his sanity for your own selfish _wants_. Not needs. _Wants_." She smiled softly, morosely. "I also think it's sweet that you're that stubborn about him. He needs someone who's as loyal as you…"_

_The dark expression suddenly evaporated from the Spaniard's face, and out came the usual ray of sunshine that was practically his signature expression. "You really think so?" he enquired brightly, his flamboyant green eyes sparkling with glittered hope. "Then you'll pretend to be my girlfriend for a while?"_

_"I guess so," she said, sighing. "But this is only because I owe you one anyway. Why are you taking the path of jealousy, anyway? That's not really like you at all…"_

_"I've read an article that says jealousy is an emotion that's almost as strong as love. So, why not?" He grinned. She sighed, mainly due to his stupidity and illogical way of thinking._

_"You do realize that this has a high chance of backfiring, and he'll be too stubborn to admit it and move on to someone else, right?" The Spaniard nodded slowly, but Emma sighed anyway; Antonio wouldn't understand a concept like this. He was too warmhearted. "Alright, whatever. I'm tired. But if it backfires, I'm not helping you pick up the pieces." She tilted her nose in the air with regal-like mannerisms, and Antonio chuckled softly._

_"Gracias! You really haven't changed at all, have you, Emma?"_

_"No," she said, clutching to the silver knob on the door. "But you… Toni… _you_ have_."

• ❈ •

The mirror reflected an image of a young man with dark brown locks, the corners of his caramel eyes cascading with despondent tears of remorse. A single sniff, and an arm immediately began to rub against his face, soaking up the embarrassing trail of tears on his face. What exactly was wrong with him? It wasn't as if he cared much for Antonio; they were only acquaintances—childhood friends who broke apart, separated by the lonely waters between them, separated from clashing personalities, separated from emotional differences…. Romano as sure he didn't feel anything for that confounded Spaniard, but still… still, the tears came, and they came hard.

Maybe it was because of Emma. Just the sole mention of her made Romano want to scream his head off. She had destroyed his younger brother into little pieces of a brokenhearted soul, and Romano was the one forced to pick up the pieces and glue them back together carefully. It was a painstaking job, but he supposed that a certain German was responsible for most of the remaining gluing Romano still had not gone out to do… even if he specifically loathed that aforementioned German with as much intensity as his heavy metal music on full volume.

He sighed. Alright, Romano was feeling a little bit of jealousy. It happened with his younger brother, and it happened with Antonio (or possibly Emma; he wasn't exactly sure which). He was not about to let Antonio win with his little game, however. Romano had to prove he was tougher than that; he had to prove that he still had some pride in him, enough so that he would be able to ignore their disgusting little relationship and move on with his overdramatic life.

Defiantly, with newfound hope, the petulant Italian got up from his sitting position and walked towards his door. However, before he could even reach a mere foot towards the door, it opened all of a sudden, and in came his too-ebullient-for-his-own-good brother. Romano scowled; of course, it was always Feliciano who had to ruin those sacred moments of his life with only the little Italian's saccharine presence.

"Vediamo… mio fratello… Have you been crying?" Feliciano asked with stupid suspicions, and Romano blushed furiously, nodding his head to the side in disagreement.

"No! That bastard downstairs sprayed water on me to wake me up, and—"

"Who let him in, then, mio fratello?"

Romano groaned noiselessly. "What are you doing here anyway? Can't you see that I'm busy?"

"Oh, scusi!" Feliciano giggled softly, knocking his head to signify his moment of idiocy. "But, well, I just wanted to tell you that… Well, actually, Toni wanted me to tell you that he's going out on a date with his girlfriend tomorrow. Isn't that great for him?"

"Whoop-de-fucking-doo," Romano said in the most curt manner possible, his nostrils flaring with hate. He was not going to let Antonio win, he was not going to let Antonio win…

"Yeah." The Italian sent Romano a crooked grin, and Romano quirked a confused eyebrow at that; something seemed off—_completely_ off… "So… well, Luddy's sister is coming to visit… I think… and he said you should come, to meet her and everything."

Romano thought about it for a minute. Normally, when it came to invitations from that German bastard, he would have outright rejected (and gone to Ludwig's house and personally kicked his vital regions with boots that were made for the rough terrain of mountains). But, the mention of a girl caused Romano to form a sweet, sweet plan to counteract with Antonio's disgusting relationship with Emma (of all people!).

So, Romano accepted with a simple "sì," which caused Feliciano's bubbly self to explode with too much mirth. All the while, Romano thought he should stay calm and cold-blooded about the whole ordeal. He also reasoned with himself that it was the appropriate time to fight fire with fire. The only exception was, his fire was fueled with energetic sentiments, ready to burn down the opposing force with a kind of brutality that made Romano himself caused to shiver.

_

* * *

_

**I'm really sorry for making you guys wait a long time, but here it is... finally! So, the dramatic plot is easing its way into the story, and since Gilbert will be appearing very soon... I can only say that it spells trouble for everyone, especially Romano, Antonio, Ludwig, and Feliciano. Possibly even Emma (who, if you didn't know, is Belgium).**

**If you don't mind, I'd like some opinions from you guys. Would you like to have a faster pace with this story? Because, I know I'm being pretty redundant right now, and the plot buildup is getting increasingly tiresome, but I'm not exactly sure if you guys actually like that or not. I will quicken the pace if you guys want me to. It might help me write a lot faster, anyway, since slow paces tend to give me more author's blocks.**

**Also, is anyone still reading this? I just want to know, because if not, I'll have this updated infrequently and focus on my other stories (which, if anyone's interested, has Spamano in it; yes, all three of them... concerning my current ongoing works, anyway). If I still have some loyal fans out there, I'll try to write a lot faster. Because seriously, even though it seems like I prefer my other stories as opposed to this one from my more frequent updates, this is my favorite story. I just have a little trouble getting enough inspiration sometimes, y'know?**


	6. ACT 1, SCENE 5

❝**O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?**❞

**「**** ACT 1, SCENE 5 ****」**

**Devil May Cry**

"And thus I clothe my naked villainy  
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;  
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil."  
—William Shakespeare, _Richard III_

* * *

Bloody red eyes peered through half-lidded, angry eyelids, long locks of white hair flowing freely in front of her face. Her attire consisted of something that was purely and obnoxiously ostentatious: a satin red headband tied neatly in a giant bow, a spunky black shirt with "_Teufel_" across the bosom in glittery crimson lettering, a puffed-out skirt that was pulled up over her stomach and barely swept above her knees, five-inch red high heels that could have killed on contact, black- and white-striped leg warmers with similar glittery lettering as her shirt, and a plethora of silver jewelry that clanged against each other in a form of a discordant rhythm. Everything about her screamed of a particularly flamboyant red shade, even her rubicund face, shining with gloriously embarrassing scarlet.

"Why do you guys always drag me into all this shit?" the girl asked angrily through clenched teeth, glaring specifically at the two men in front of her. One was a burly young man with smooth blonde locks in the usual militaristic fashion and piercing blue eyes that were both evenly gentle yet intimidatingly scary. His posture was slightly slumped, and his expression was completely and utterly flustered—a huge contrast to his tough-looking mien. The other was slightly shorter and resembled the girl in possibly every way possible, from the color of his hair to their eyes right down to the color of their cheeks. However, unlike the girl, the identical-looking man seemed to be slightly amused at the humorous visage of the girl, chuckling inaudibly and uncontrollably.

The blonde softly said, "I am sorry, schwester… But Feliciano…"

"Oh," she interrupted suddenly, curtly. "Don't you _dare_ start with that! Start wearing the fucking pants in the relationship for once, now, will you, dear Ludwig?" The blonde man, whose name was apparently Ludwig, got startled by the sudden scolding from his younger sister and slowly walked backwards, awkwardly stuffing his quivering hands in his pockets. All the while, the other man was in hysterics, his boisterous laughter ringing all throughout the organizational vacancies of the house.

"Yeah, dear bruder," the other man sang in a mocking tone. "Take off that skirt and put on some pants. Be a man! Mein Gott!"

All of a sudden, the girl shot the white-haired albino man a cold, menacing glare, causing said albino to cower backwards—right behind the tall blonde wall of muscles. The two continued to shiver from the thought of the girl eating them alive, and the girl just continued to scold them like a mother would; and, apparently, that was fiercely, with a hint of nagging.

"You shouldn't be talking, Gilbert," the girl deadpanned angrily, referring to the quivering albino. "What about your relationships with that Hungarian? That Austrian? That sweet, little Canadian? You were as much of a _girl_ in those relationships as Ludwig is with Feli!"

"W-was not!" denied Gilbert, his mouth completely open in an act of protest. By now, he had pushed his way out from behind his wall of perpetual safety and stomped towards the girl in fervent defiance, his face puffed red. "_I'm_ the one who had to initiate everything! Lizzy was too secretly obsessed with Roderich to do start anything with me! Roderich was too un-gay and prideful! Mattie… he was too shy and sweet, and…" He sighed, and the girl sighed, and the brawny blonde sighed, all at once, in perfect harmony that would never be repeated ever again.

"Okay, look, I'm sorry about what happened with Mattie, but really, stop butting yourself in all our conversations." The girl's expression softened, albeit only slightly, and she resumed to her matriarchal scolding. "Now, Ludwig, I know you love Feli and would do anything for him, but have some independence in yourself."

Ludwig nodded, his face still flushed.

"Anyway, as much as I like helping people out…" She nodded her head. "Well, it's practically my job and all… But, really, _why_ exactly do you want me to dress up as your 'sister' again?"

The blonde shrugged, biting the bottom of his lip in the most tentative manner possible. "I'm not exactly sure, schwester… Feli asked me for a favor, and naturally, I just accepted. All I am aware of is that it has something to do with Romano, and—"

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" Her legs suddenly turned into gelatin, and it looked like she would topple over any minute now. Even from her horribly construed face, one could see that the girl was having a mental breakdown within herself, her expression a mixture of every emotion out there. "Okay, look, I know Romano's a great guy and all, but I can't keep helping you guys organize his life. It's _not_ my job. And plus, he hates me. He'll know it's me, even in this stupid getup, from a mile away."

"Who's this Romano kid anyway?" Gilbert enquired all of a sudden. "He sounds like one popular pimp, if you ask me."

The girl rolled her eyes, picking at a stray lock of snow white hair that made its way towards her face, pestering her with annoying tickles. "I guess he is, in a way… He's this really rude guy, older brother of Ludwig's boyfriend, curses a lot…"

"He sounds cool," said Gilbert with sheer nonchalance, his red eyes scanning the entirety of the room with precise motions. "I'd like to meet this kid for myself. I mean, I don't usually say this, but from the sounds of it, he could be just about as awesome as me!"

"Oh, you'll meet him, and then you'll see just how _awesome_ he'll be to you," the girl said with sarcasm dripping off of her every word—painfully slow but covered in a myriad of it. "But right now, I need to go and meet up with that bastard for our 'date'." She ripped off the wig and her red contacts and threw them down on the floor, stomping on them without so much as batting an eyelash (well, actually she did, but only to rejuvenate her eyes after _ripping_ out her contacts, which wasn't the smartest thing to do exactly…). Then, with one swift motion at the turn of the heel, she trudged off out of the door, leaving a fretful Ludwig and a smirking Gilbert behind.

Ludwig pulled a despondent face and looked down, mumbling to himself, "But… schwester… Feliciano… I told him I would…"

"Forget about her, West," Gilbert sneered happily, his nostrils flaring fervently. He quickly snatched the wig off of the ground and toyed with it, a ghost of a smirk on his thin lips. "I'm not one to crossdress, but I think I can make do."

Gilbert grinned, winking. Ludwig paled, shuddering. The latter wasn't exactly sure if he liked the image of his older brother in a short skirt… high heels… a revealing top…

_Eww... dass böse ist..._

• ❈ •

Never in his life had Romano felt such anxiety, and about meeting a stranger, nonetheless! The petulant (though, currently, somewhat placid) Italian had never heard of the brawny blonde German man's enigmatic sister before, but what were the chances that a perfect ploy for the destruction of Antonio's jealousy game was to arrive at such a time like this, as if she was practically giving herself to Romano without even a second's hesitation? Of course, Romano had no clue as to what the girl's personality would be like, or even what the girl looked like. For all he knew, this mysterious female figure could possibly just be the macho German bastard, the only difference being that the girl lacked male reproductive organ (_Actually, they both do, _Romano said to himself, his lips forming into a small smile of amusement). Either way, whatever the girl may act or look like, Romano was sure that he would be able to somehow woo her with his elegant Italian demeanor and brag about it in front of that blasted Spaniard. And then, revenge would be accomplished, and the Italian could live (somewhat peacefully) once again.

Of course, when the Vargas brothers arrived at the German's house, they were met with the traumatizing surprise of Ludwig's "sister," whom of which was obviously a grown _man_ in a rather revealing outfit that made Romano spontaneously regurgitate in his mouth multiple times. The least the man could have done was _shave_ his disgustingly hairy legs if he wanted to fool them with this effeminate visage; though they were constantly referred to as stupid men who lacked the ability to read the atmosphere, they weren't dense enough to _not_ realize that a man is a man—even in such glittery clothing!

"That's revolting, crossdressing bastard," Romano stated bluntly, his tongue subconsciously sticking out precariously. Feliciano slowly crept up behind his older brother and flashed the albino an empathetic expression, a myriad of gentle amber eyes and a soft smile. Of course, said albino didn't seem to mind at all; rather, from his amused face, it seemed that he couldn't care less and was very much entertained with the crude Italian's wanton personality.

"Danke, _Romano_, I'm assuming?" He grinned at the look of surprised confusion on the Italian's face (as well as the fact that, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the other Italian brother sneak away and steal an initiative kiss from his brother, to which his dear old bruder responded by awkwardly wrapping his arms around the tiny waist of the sentimental Italian; oh, his bruder was impossible!). Romano's eyes narrowed substantially from a plethora of suspicions nagging at his head, and the albino just smirked, his exaggerated movements making Romano even more uncomfortable.

"Lucky guess," Romano deadpanned. All the while, his eyes were widening from the fact that the albino was slowly trudging towards him, his movements nerving and scary. It felt as if the albino was a barbaric animal stalking its prey, and unfortunate for him, Romano was said prey; and, in a short moment, when the gap between them was almost barely closed off, it looked as if the disgusting crossdressing, bastardous lion was about to pounce and attack with raging vigor, the fire burning in his eyes fervent and hot and _red_.

Romano, slightly paralyzed and confused, just gulped and awaited the advance of the savage predator, mentally swearing to himself was going to kill the lovey-dovey and oblivious couple right in front of them, whom of which were currently making out with stentorian noises of slurping and sucking. Fuck.

• ❈ •

_Ding!_

Antonio's head immediately turned towards the door, and he smiled when he saw the girlish figure of the blonde Belgian woman walk gracefully inside the restaurant. "Emma! I'm so glad you were able to make it!"

She scowled, taking a seat adjacent to the Spaniard in the utmost haughty manner, her nose in the air with pompous scorn. "Shut the fuck up, bastard. What do you want anyway? You do realize that I'm a very busy woman nowadays, and I really don't have time to waste anymore." Her green eyes glared into another pair of the same colored eyes, her shoulders raised with rage. "Well?" she encouraged angrily, impatiently. "Go on. I haven't gotten all day, you know."

"Lo siento, mi amor. It's about Romano, and—"

"Of course, _as always_."

"—and, well… I was talking to mi hermano Francis a little earlier, and he told me I should give up on this 'jealousy act'."

Emma smiled, but it was but a brief flash of teeth, and she immediately returned to her petulant expression. "Francis is a wise man, Toni. You could learn a thing or two from him."

"Then how should I go about getting mi querido Lovi?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's just not that into you." Emma shrugged. Antonio pouted.

"But… But—! Emma, you how much I love—"

"Okay, okay," Emma interrupted gravely, deep and irritated sighs repetitively escaping the crevice of her glossy pink lips like a plethora of condemned souls escaping from the burning depths of hell. "I get it! You adore this kid! You're madly, truly, deeply _in love_ with him!" She snarled. "But, listen here Antonio; you can't play God with love. If he doesn't like you, then so be it. You can't _force_ someone to love you. I seriously don't know how many times I've had to say this to you, bastard."

"You're just saying that because…" He trailed off and pursed his lips, nodding his head as if to rid his thoughts of everything he was about to throw at the fragile Belgian lady. He took in a deep breath as to help regain his placid composure, crossing his legs over one another in an act of restraint. "I… How has your day been?"

_Typical Antonio, always trying to change the subject when it comes to… _"Well, my older brother's come to visit."

"Oh!" came Antonio's ebullient ejaculation, his dismal expression illuminating with newfound excitement. "Mi mejor amigo Gilbo? How has he been? I haven't talked to him in forever…"

"Fine. Still a little cuckoo." She frowned. "He seems a little emotionally unstable right now."

Antonio screwed up his face in confusion, his arms fidgety and clammy. "Oh, why? Isn't he happy with su pequeña de Canadá?"

"They broke up a long time ago, Toni," Emma said in a matter-of-fact manner as she carefully placed a lone hand under her chin for support, her other hand drumming atop the table. Antonio looked wearily at her. "He seems interested in Romano."

"Oh, that's—" Antonio blinked stupidly. "Esperar… _what_?"

"He told me, and I quote, 'I usually don't say this, but …something something something… he sounds just as awesome as me!' Or some egotistical shit like that." She was using her fingers to indicate quotation marks all the while, and the Spaniard gawked at her worriedly. Emma just sighed, passively waving a hand as to reassure her fretful Spanish friend. "Don't worry. I know you bastardous trio got your name from… _that_… but Ludwig and Feli are there, too, so—"

"Wait! ¡Dios mío! Mi querido Lovi is with Gilbo _right now_?"

"Uhh…" She looked at the Spaniard awkwardly, whose face was so scarlet that it looked as if he would explode any minute now.

He reiterated slowly, carefully, through gritted teeth. "_My precious Lovi is with a _post-breakup_ Gilbo right now_?"

"Err, yes, I think so, but—"

"_Mierda_," the angry Spaniard cursed vehemently as he ran with the quickness and stealth of a leopard out of the restaurant, leaving the indifferent little Belgian lady back at the table. She toyed with her manicured nails nonchalantly, tracing the small patterns of elegant letters (each fingernail having a letter that spelled out the word "devil") childishly. Then, all of a sudden, a sporadic wave of depression hit her—and it hit her hard, the line of her lips dissipating into a slightly open frown that seethed of morose whimpers, her fluttering eyelashes graced with clear dews of tears. She clutched at her black shirt as if in pain. And, she _was_ in pain—perpetual, clandestine, unbearable wounds that have been present for nineteen years straight.

There are still no scars.

* * *

**I don't like this chapter much, but at least Gilbert finally makes his appearance, I guess. Pfft, run, Antonio, run! XD**

**Anyway, I'll be making a Halloween extra. It somewhat pertains to the plot, but I can't say it's part of the plot because the current time for this isn't even near October. Hopefully I'll be able to finish it in time for Halloween. That's my main goal right now. I mean, I know I should work on the sixth chapter… and homework, shh… but I really want to write something about Halloween _and_ Hetalia. Also, I have the perfect plot already. All I'm saying is this: crossdressing, swans, Oktoberfest, Carnevale, and Ireland. ;P**

**Also, I'd like to thank all of my supporters/readers! I truly hope you enjoy and keep supporting this story until the end!**


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